


Waltz Through My Heart

by MusicalsandMordred



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Aromantic Eponine and Bahorel, Background Combeferre/Courfeyrac, Background Enjolras/Grantaire, Don't know if anyone but me will like this but, Fine Arts School?, Minor Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Minor Joly/Bossuet Laigle/Musichetta, Professional dancers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-29
Updated: 2020-08-29
Packaged: 2021-03-06 16:06:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26181619
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MusicalsandMordred/pseuds/MusicalsandMordred
Summary: Feuilly tried to keep his blush under control. Feuilly failed in that regard, and Bahorel (still gaining bad friend points) couldn’t help a singular giggle from escaping. Jehan, bless them in all their infinite adorableness, was too focused on other goings on.In which the Amis are all dancers at a Fine Arts School, Feuilly is late for their after-school dance group meeting, and M. Valjean is MIA. Chaos abounds when these dancing nerds are left unsupervised, and Feuilly is an over-worked pottymouth!
Relationships: Bahorel & Feuilly (Les Misérables), Feuilly/Jean Prouvaire
Comments: 2
Kudos: 4





	Waltz Through My Heart

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [La Fanfare Parisien du Quartier Latin](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/676273) by oilpainter. 



> Slight Warning: Non-graphic/non-detailed mention of a racially-motivated bar fight. (Bahorel was targeted in the past for the colour of his skin).  
> I wrote this last year without the context of the way 2020 and it's events opened my eyes to the continual need to improve my commitments to anti-racism. I am continuing to learn about and strive for quality representation in my stories.

Feuilly ran up the steps, panting hard. L’ecole de Danse et des Beaux Arts in Paris boasted several stories, with two flights of stairs apiece. Feuilly was just running past the fourth floor, the fourth of eight before he got to where he needed to go. He was also running late.

There was a clatter of something falling behind him and he stopped to glance back. The top of his messenger bag (that was masquerading as his dance bag today; he’d grabbed the wrong one in his morning rush) must’ve come open, and his tap shoes had fallen out. And they were still falling down the flights of stairs.

Of course they were.

“Fuck me.” With a long-suffering sigh, the redhead took off back down the stairs. Thankfully, Feuilly’s taps had stopped their fall at the bottom of the fourth-floor flight of stairs. He picked them up, dusting them off and checking for lose screws or cracked taps. Everything seemed in order, the first taste of good fortune he’d had today.

The dance shoes were promptly stuffed back into the bag and shoved under his work uniform for good measure. A voice rose up in his mind – Jehan, aghast at Feuilly’s treatment of his clothing, first shoving the uniform into the bag and now on top of dirty dance shoes. Feuilly’s heart skipped a beat as he thought about his gentle friend; he’d been working double shifts of late on weekends, and hadn’t been seeing Jehan, or the rest of the Les Amis dance troupe, as much as he usually did outside of class. But Jehan was…well…they were special. Not that Feuilly was prepared to admit that to himself, let alone Bahorel.

Feuilly bounded off the last stair. He was now almost half an hour late. Even Pontmercy would be there by now! If M. Valjean didn’t give him a talking to, Enjolras sure would. The sounds of the dance troupe could be heard even from all the way down the hall (as Headmaster Javert barely – and they meant barely – tolerated the after-school troupe’s existence, they were relegated to the small and un-airconditioned studio in the right corner of the last floor in the school.) The strains of the musical Chicago’s “Roxie” could be heard in fits and starts as Feuilly approached, along with the sounds of multiple voices, several raised in curses. Feuilly felt like cursing again himself: because they had the shitty studio, they also had the shitty sound system that worked maybe two thirds of the time. It seemed today was to be the other third.

Feuilly finally made it to the door and dropped his bag off his shoulder. It landed with a loud thunk and he winced. Just what he needed, to draw attention to himself as he entered late. But Feuilly apparently didn’t need to worry about drawing attention to himself – the room was a veritable display of chaos. Bossuet and Joly were running around while Musichetta chain-ed around them, the eye of their frenetic storm. Cosette and Marius were practicing some lifts, some _running_ lifts, which didn’t seem like the wisest course on Cosette’s part, considering where the other things Marius carried most often ended up. Never mind that she wasn’t wearing her pointe shoes. Feuilly could hear Courfeyrac singing very loudly and off-key, something that sounded like Andrew Lloyd Webber’s “Macavity” (maybe?) while Combferre and Enjolras protested (in vain it would seem.) This noise was interspersed with the song from Chicago intermittently blasting through the speakers amongst a lot of stereo static.

M. Valjean was nowhere to be seen.

Feuilly almost didn’t want to step inside, but step he did, kicking his bag in front of him over the threshold…

…and immediately almost got bowled over by Grantaire. Feuilly yelped and leapt out of his way. Grantaire stopped rolling around on the floor and stood, shaking lint out of his hair.

“Sorry, Feuilly! Ep and I are finally undertaking our bet today, and I’m just trying to figure out which floor roll I want her to attempt to execute.”

Feuilly shook his head, smiling bemusedly. The now infamous bet had occurred when Grantaire being well, _Grantaire_ , had claimed executing one of Eponine’s back spins wasn’t as hard as it looked. She had bet him ten euros he couldn’t do it on the spot. When M. Valjean broke that party up before it dissolved into (even more) chaos, the bet had evolved. Now, the prize money was about fifty euros, because all the rest of the dancers had contributed, even Enjolras. It would seem even the marble ballet dancer wanted to know how this would end. The stakes had been upped too: Grantaire was going to attempt whatever move Eponine demanded he had to, and she was going to try to do the same.

“I’ll never understand the appeal of throwing yourself around on the floor, R,” Feuilly said, picking out a thread that Grantaire had missed in his earlier attempts to clean his hair.

“And I don’t see the appeal of strapping metal soles to one’s feet and doing what amounts to drumming and Irish step dancing on the stage. Besides,” the other man winked, “Modern dance is like modern art. Some people couldn’t hope to understand.”

Feuilly had to shoot back. “I don’t know why you bother prepping. Ep’s gonna cream you.”

“Ah!” Grantaire put a hand over his heart, pretending offense. “Oh, ye of little faith.” He walked away as Feuilly laughed, still making affronted noises, and yelled back: “She wants to talk to you, by the way!”

“Yeah I do!” Eponine hurdled over Cosette’s pointe shoes and ‘Chetta’s characters, up to Feuilly (who still hadn’t gotten any farther through the door) from where she’d been pleading with Courfeyrac to stop singing. “I wanted to make sure you had time to teach Gav some more of your technique today after the session?” She pointed to where her little brother was at the bar attempting to do a wing. Feuilly had to smile even wider at that; Gavroche had natural talent, but he and Eponine didn’t have the money to splurge for tap lessons. So, Feuilly gave him some pointers whenever Gavroche and his sister stopped by for the after-school sessions.

“Of course,” Feuilly replied. He tried not to think about the Jazz History assignment he had due for tomorrow that wasn’t quite done. It had been a busy shift today (hence the uncharacteristic lateness) but the assignment could wait.

A loud saxophone blast moaned through the speakers, startling everyone and eliciting a sheepish “Sorry!” from Joly. Bossuet just cursed loudly in the background. Apparently they were now on sound system repair for the time being.

“Thanks.” Eponine gave him a wry smile, and then sprung off, her ponytail swinging. Feuilly wanted to know what juice she’d had that gave her such boundless energy. He could use some. He watched Ep join Grantaire where R was stretching by the (only and small) window. _Or_ , Feuilly thought, _trying to stretch by the window_. The modern dancer’s gaze kept getting dragged to where Enjolras was practicing his splits in the far-right corner. Courfeyrac had stopped singing (thank God) and was now trying to waltz Combeferre around the room, both he and his boyfriend pretending to be oblivious to the star-crossed gazes Enj and R were throwing each other’s way. The Golden Trio were still in their ballet leggings from class this afternoon, leggings which left very little to the imagination. Feuilly would know. Jehan was in his ballet class, and Feuilly would be lying if he denied checking out their legs when they were doing arabesques together at the bar. 

It was gratifying to see, however, that Enjolras himself wasn’t the most focused on his stretching either. Feuilly bit his lip to stifle his giggles as both men pretended to nonchalantly look over at the other – Enjolras raising his head from his middle split and Grantaire spotting on a floor turn. They met each other’s gazes and turned several shades of vermillion.

The pair had only just gone on their first date last Friday. Feuilly was expecting the full run-down from Jehan, since they were apparently R’s confidante in all things romantic and a big reason why he’d had the courage to ask Enjolras out in the first place. From the look of the _looks_ across the room, Feuilly would say it had gone well.

There came another loud blast from the speakers - a cymbal crash perhaps? - giving everyone in the room (and probably in the whole school vicinity) a heart attack. There was very nearly a real-life crash: the sound had the awful timing of startling Marius right before Cosette jumped into his arms for a full arabesque lift. Thankfully, Marius caught her. He sacrificed his face and collar bone to do it, but he caught her, then put her down and immediately whirled on Joly and Bossuet. It was a little hard to take Marius seriously when his face was the colour of a lilac bush, but he laid into the boys pretty hard. Granted, he was stuttering quite a bit, and Feuilly was pretty sure the word “nincompoop” was used, but still. Musichetta had to actually step in.

“Marius, darling, you know we have the character trio competition coming up…”

Feuilly chuckled, and finally stepped into the room, only to trip and nearly twist an ankle on the pile of Cosette’s and ‘Chetta’s shoes. Grimacing, he made his across the studio to where Bahorel and Jehan were sat against the wall. Bahorel was currently gaining points for worst best friend in Paris; he was purple in the face from laughing at Feuilly.

“I take it you witnessed all that clumsiness?” Bahorel nodded, tears of mirth gleaming in his amber eyes.

“It’s like Bossuet possessed you for a minute there. Bodily harm and all.”

“Yeah yeah.” Feuilly just waved Bahorel’s laughter away and sat himself down between his best friend and Jehan.

“Hi…Feuilly!” Jehan gasped out. They were bent over backwards in a full bridge backbend, their face red from the exertion of it all. Their tank top was also riding up a little, exposing a pale strip of lean, toned stomach. Decidedly not even glancing in the direction of the exposed skin, Feuilly bent down to be level with Jehan’s face and grinned.

“Hey. How’s the view from down there? The room look any less frightening?”

“The view’s much better now that you’re here, dear.”

Feuilly tried to keep his blush under control. Feuilly failed in that regard, and Bahorel (still gaining bad friend points) couldn’t help a singular giggle from escaping. Jehan, bless them in all their infinite adorableness, was too focused on other goings on.

“Is that Gavroche trying to do cartwheels over there?” When Bahorel informed them that this was indeed the case, Jehan squealed. “Bahorel, help me up. I must join Gav, and tonight I will have enough material to complete my choreography series exploring moves that make the blood rush to one’s head.”

“Feuilly’s the one closest,” Bahorel sighed, leaning against the wall and propping his head up on his massive hands in a showy display of laziness. “He can help you.” It was hard to tell if Feuilly’s blush grew deeper or not – the curse of a redhead was an intense red colour in the face whenever slightly over heated – but he nodded and knelt to help Jehan up. He’d sort of anticipated just getting his hands under Jehan’s torso and then pushing them up, but the lithe person simply dropped into Feuilly’s arms and lap. An unforeseen occurrence to be sure, but not that unusual where Jehan was concerned. Between them and Courfeyrac, the people in the troupe down for tons of physical contact got just that.

Jehan blushed prettily, and Feuilly’s heart skipped not one, but several beats. All the words Feuilly had ever known vacated his brain. Bahorel sniggered. Out of the corner of Feuilly’s eye, he saw Eponine leave Grantaire mooning over Enjolras’ legs and lay herself down a little ways away.

Great, now she could watch him get altogether too flustered over Jehan as well.

Fuck.

He was way too head-over-heels for someone who’d been a friend not even a year ago… and who probably didn’t have a clue how drastically things had changed for Feuilly.

Fuck, he was wrecked.

“Thank you, mon ami,” the object of Feuilly’s feelings wrapped their arms around his neck to give a thank you squeeze, and Feuilly just about died. He couldn’t decide if Bahorel gained more worst friend points for suggesting he help them up or if he lost points. And then Jehan was off to frolic with Gavroche, skipping over in a happy blaze.

Feuilly leaned against the same wall as Bahorel with a heavy sigh.

“You’re not very subtle, you know.”

Feuily groaned. “Shut up.”

Bahorel raised his hands in a defensive shrug. “Just sayin’. I was clueless about Combeferre and Courfeyrac, not to mention Enj and R, but even an aro dude like me can tell you’re head over heels, man.”

“Damn straight.” Eponine had been rolling her back out on the other side of Jehan. Her eyes had been closed – he’d thought she was napping in prep for the bet. However, the word aro showing up conversations was a sure-fire way to summon Ep. Like an aromantic Bloody Mary, Feuilly thought.

Eponine reached across his lap to first bump Bahorel’s scarred one. Then she sat up; Feuilly fixed her with a desperate stare.

“Is it that obvious?”

Both of his friends hesitated just long enough to cause his head to drop into his hands.

“I mean…” Bahorel trailed off. “You guys have been really close since you met, but after that stint I did in the hospital, you seemed to get a lot closer.” Both Eponine and Feuilly winced.

That ‘stint’, as he referred to it, was the worst thing to happen to Feuilly in a long, long time. Bahorel, Grantaire, Bossuet, and Combeferre had gone out drinking about five months ago and got into a fight with some racist assholes. Bahorel got the worst of it.

They’d been glaring at Combeferre all night, but he was gone to the bathroom before they made the truly awful comments. It didn’t seem to bother them that Bahorel was also black; however, it had certainly bothered the remaining three Amis. They’d laid into it, but in the beginning, the boys had been evenly matched, so Bossuet ran to get the bouncer. And then more guys had shown up and just gone to fucking town on Bahorel and Grantaire. But they’d done more harm to Bahorel just because of the colour of his skin.

He’d been rushed to the hospital. Feuilly could never remember feeling like he was going to be violently sick more so than the car ride over with Eponine, tense and serious at the wheel, and Marius, babbling away in the back seat.

They’d tried to kick Feuilly out the of hospital when visiting hours were done, even though he’d done his best to explain Bahorel was the closest thing to family he had. As the hospital was on the other side of fricken Paris from his shitty apartment, Feuilly had wound up at Jehan’s door, a complete wreck of nerves and anger and exhaustion. He smiled ruefully at the memory. It had simultaneously been the worst night, but also the best because Jehan had just been so good at saying the right things to make him feel better. They also made a killer grilled cheese. And they’d held Feuilly as he’d sobbed out his fear, and then let him fall asleep in their arms on the couch.

That wasn’t the night that caused Feuilly to fall for Jehan, nor was the following morning. It was a wake-up call in regards to his feelings, though. A _stark_ wake-up call.

Feuilly’s face seemed to communicate that Bahorel was right, but that he also didn’t want to go into details, not here and now. Neither of them pressed him for a better explanation (thank fuck.)

“Maybe you should just tell them then,” Eponine said. “If anyone were to handle a romantic confession well, it would be Jehan. Plus, I’m 90% sure they like you.”

“Oh, they definitely like you,” Bahorel boomed. “ _Like_ , like you.”

“What are we, seven? And what makes you think so?” Feuilly hated that the last question was phrased so carefully nonchalantly that they’d know he was trying not to sound too eager. God, he wished for the swift release of death. He’d never wished for it more.

“They call you dear and love,” Eponine pointed out. Feuilly fidgeted with his bag strap in order to avoid their gazes. Neither of them knew why Jehan called Feuilly those things, but it wasn’t why they thought. Plus, both of them had bare-into-your-soul kind of eyes, rivaled only perhaps by Combeferre. He didn’t want them to see more of his bared soul than they already had, not about this.

“And they were straight scarlet in your lap just a few seconds ago!” Feuilly was trying his best, but Bahorel was hard to ignore if he put his mind to it. And he was putting his mind to it all right, pushing his wide torso right into Feuilly’s line of sight.

“It’s just…I don’t even know what I’d say,” he sighed.

Eponine raised a dark brow. “You’re asking the aromantic squad for romance advice? That’s like asking Enjolras how to spice it up in the bedroom.”

That might have made Feuilly laugh in different circumstances. Now he just glared at Ep. “You two came at me, not the other way around.”

“Just tell them the truth!” Bahorel insisted. Ep nodded in agreement. “That’s always struck me as the best option in these situations.”

The truth? Feuilly thought. What truth?

The truth that Jehan’s laugh was Feuilly’s favourite sound? Or the truth that seeing what style they had done their magnificently luxurious hair in for class was the highlight of Feuilly’s day? How about the fact that Feuilly had no clue how, but in the span of seven months, they had gone from a close friend to the last person Feuilly thought about before he went to sleep every night?

He was saved from having to answer.

“EPONINE!” Courfeyrac bellowed. “YOU ARE BEING SUMMONED FOR YOUR BET!” Ep rolled her eyes and stood.

Bahorel helped Feuilly to his feet as well, then clapped him on the back. He whispered, “It’ll be ok, bud.”

Jehan ran up to them the minute Bahorel and Feuilly joined the growing circle at the center of the room.

“I can’t believe this is finally happening,” they crowed to Feuilly, eyes bright and happy.

I can’t believe how good you look at the end of a long day, he thought. But he just smiled and tugged on their braid. Anything to keep those bright hazel eyes staring at him for a moment longer.

Grantaire and Eponine were facing off in the center of the room, surrounded by the Amis. Courfeyrac stood between them, arms spread wide. He was taking his duties as Master of Ceremonies very seriously.

“Gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “ladies and nonbinary pals, we are gathered here on this fine afternoon to…”

They never got to hear what they were gathered there to do, because, at that moment, the door burst open and M. Valjean rushed in.

“So sorry I’m so late everybody, one of Mabeuf’s three-year-old kids peed in his studio…” the professor trailed off as he noticed the odd proceedings. Everyone had frozen where they stood. Courfeyrac’s mouth was still hanging open. “What on Earth is going on here?”

So, today was not to be the day Grantaire and Eponine undertook their bet.

“It’s probably for the best,” Bahorel said on the ride back to Feuilly’s place. “I just wasn’t in the mood to see Grantaire get his ass handed to him today.”

Jehan threw their head back in a laugh. They were seated in the back with Feuilly, and they were listening to a podcast about poetry as Bahorel drove them home (Bahorel had protested the listening choice, but Feuilly felt he owed him after the questioning his friend had put him through today.) It didn’t really matter anyway; neither of them heard much of the podcast because Jehan kept up a steady stream of chatter about the poetry and the speakers. Bahorel, for all his earlier whinging, kept asking relevant questions.

Feuilly leaned back into his seat with a sigh, finally feeling the stress of the day release from his chest. There was still the Jazz History assignment to do, and another shift to work tomorrow afternoon, but that was alright. His closest friends were coming over for improvised taco salad, a Feuilly house specialty. The stress was leaving him alone for the time being. And if a good portion of the reason for that release was the sunny smile on Jehan’s face, nobody else (besides Eponine and Bahorel, the fuckers) had to know.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey, if you decided to read this oddly-specifc AU, thanks!
> 
> This story was inspired by a fic I read a long time ago on Fanfiction.net called La Fanfare Parisien du Quartier Latin where they're all in a Brass Band and chaos descends when Valjean as the conductor is late. I loved it so much I was like, hmm, what could I write about in that way? And the answer was dance, dancers, and the special brand of hell that is dance school.


End file.
